


Thirteen Ways to Use a Knife

by CopperCaravan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fenera Mahariel, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:11:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>* Da'len - children / child<br/>* Durgen'len - lit. Children of the Stone / dwarves<br/>* Elgar'nan - Dalish god of wrath and the sun<br/>* Ir abelas, hahren. - I'm sorry, elder. / I am filled with sorrow for you, elder. / expression of sympathy<br/>* Harellan! - Liar! / (you are a) liar</p></blockquote>





	Thirteen Ways to Use a Knife

1\. Tamlen loves to watch her work, loves to see her tiny fingers moving deftly over knots and knives and bowstrings. He watches her maneuver her knife, work a perfect arrow, set the fletching just right, and wonders how Master Ilen let her slip away from apprenticeship. “He says I’ve got the hands,” she’d explained. “But not the heart for it.” And Tamlen can’t argue with that because he knows her heart lives in too many places already—in the weighted curve of her bow, in the victorious tragedy of their hunt, in the full bellies of their people, and in his eyes.

2\. “You know,” Daveth tells her, leaning closer than any other human man has dared. “The man running the kennels was lookin’ for a flower like that to cure one of the dogs; offering a reward, I heard.” She looks at him over her shoulder, her face close enough that one might think his presence welcome if one could not read her expression. He shuffles backward just enough, the smile still playing on his face. “Just something to think about.” She plunges her knife into the soil and digs it up, roots and all. The men don’t say a word, but they all hear her mutter “always liked your dogs.”

3\.  “Are you really an elf?” The little boy is very skeptical because his father has always told him elves were nasty creatures. But this one seems nice—nicer than anybody here, at least. He watches her hand pass over the knife at her belt and she pulls out a few coins from her purse. He sees her walk into the field outside the village and then he heads toward the only baker left in town. He doesn’t see her pass over the coin purse on her hip and pull her knife from the sheath. He doesn’t see her sink it into the feral wolves or use it to cut the pretty necklace from his mother’s lifeless neck. In fact, he never sees her again. But his mother’s things find their way to him and the locket is tied around his neck by the kindly old woman in the Chantry.

4\. Alistair has been staring at this rosebush for at least sixteen minutes. Leliana had told him about it, had said the fact that it flowered at all was a miracle, a sign. He’s been admiring the blooms, thinking about how lovely they are in the midst of all this. He’d thought of picking one, of maybe... well, but his hands bear the evidence of that failure. Thumb and pointer and palm covered in a sprinkling of red pinpricks. And they really need to go. But he’s not been able to just leave it. He doesn’t know she’s there until she’s in front of him, knife out, scraping away the thorns and cutting a long stem to rival the finest Orlesian florist. She hands him the flower and leads them out of Lothering.

5\. When it’s all done— _finally_ —Wynne watches the young elven woman pull out her knife and rip her own shirt to shreds. One, two, three strips of cloth from the hem to her navel. Any other day and Wynne could help; any other day, Irving could do it himself. But not today, not after all this. They’ve barely the energy to stand, much less to begin the mending of broken bones. So the elf braces the First Enchanter’s leg with the slightly-less-broken leg of an old table and the strips of her road-worn shirt and supports him as he walks down the spiraling stairs.

6\. The blade is cool against Zevran’s throat. The reminder that death is still an option should make him calm—he’d planned for that, after all. But what he’s facing turns out to be so much more pleasant than what he’d expected and in the end, she doesn’t use the knife to get the information she needs. She doesn’t use the knife to slit the throat of the man who tried to kill her. She doesn’t use the knife to guard her back when she turns away. She only uses it to cut the ropes he’s been bound up in.

7\. Bann Teagan thinks he’s convinced her: the boy can’t be saved, after all. But the look in her eyes is murder, not pity, when she turns to Isolde, spitting venom with every word: “ _You_ did this to your child. Da’len shouldn’t suffer for the sins of their elders.” Bann Teagan thinks Isolde’s convinced her: perhaps the boy can be saved, for a price. But the elf lowers her knife, puts it away. “I’m owed a favor by the Circle of Magi,” she says and the red-haired woman at her side sighs in relief.

8\. Leliana can see it, can really, really see it: the Urn of Sacred Ashes, right before her very eyes. They’re so close, but they may as well be on the other side of Thedas because the fire roaring before them can’t possibly be extinguished. “I can’t read your human tongues,” the elf says, without a hint of shame. Leliana reads the words aloud and watches as their leader begins to disrobe, hesitating only when she must place her knife—her ever constant companion—on the slab of old stone. But she does it. “Alistair,” she mutters. “Your Maker had better come through.”

9\. Sten does not understand when she hands him her knife. A warrior does not simply give their weapon away. But when she sits in front of him and lets the intricate knots of her braided hair fall, things become clear. The pull and rip and catch of a knife guided by the heavy hand of a regretful man is not easy to take for either of them. But she has given him what he needed—Asala, a way to return to his people. And so he will give her what she needs—a way to let her people go. He will cut away her regrets and her memories and her sorrows. He will cut away each and every clan member who ever dragged their fingers through in a gesture of affection, of mourning, of love, of goodbye. He cuts her hair by the campfire in silence and does not fault her for her tears.

10\. Oghren has never cared less about Orzammar politics. He’s lost his wife so many times now and he’s starting to think that it was just as much Branka’s fault as it was his. But he can’t go back there and he can’t stay here and at least on the surface he won’t have to listen to Harrowmont and Aeducan go to blows over trade. He’d stopped paying attention to any of it long ago anyway. And then the stone table of the Shaperate cracks and there’s an elvhen knife at the center of it—he hadn’t thought any weapon from the surface could survive such a blow. Her small hand is curled tight around the hilt and her lips are pulled back in a snarl that would scare off a Hurlock. “I’ve brought your crown,” she yells. “And you will provide my troops, Durgen’len. Or by Elgar’nan’s wrath, I will sink this city farther into the depths.”

11\. Zathrian cannot forgive. She understands, he knows. She is one of the people; she has known such death. Her eyes tell him so. Her lips form words of sympathy, of understanding. But also of righteous anger. “Ir abelas, hahren.” But also “How could you?” “Harellan!” But also “I understand, Keeper.” And her words, her eyes, her pleading—he feels them. He wants to... But no matter how many centuries pass, no matter how many humans are taken, no matter how many of his hunters he cannot save, he can never forgive. And when he’s finally worn down, he relents. He has no other choice. But she gives him one. She passes her knife to him and he cannot get his children back, cannot forgive, cannot atone. But he can do this for his people. She has shown him that.

12\. Morrigan is not impressed. She knows this ‘Ser Cauthrien’ could be easily disposed of; ‘twould take very little effort for the three of them to kill her. Or to at least tell her where to find Alistair instead—if they’re going to give up a Warden, it’s much more practical to keep the useful one. And Morrigan can see the frustration in the elf’s eyes, can see the battle, the strategy, the victory playing out in that quick mind. Morrigan waits for the knife to find its way to Cauthrien’s throat, to end this quickly so they can move on to more important things. But instead, the knife finds its way to the sheath and the elf nods curtly. “The rest of you are free to go,” Cauthrien says, binding their leader’s hands and dignity with more force than is required. Morrigan is surprised to find herself bristling at the sight, for reasons more than inconvenience.

13\. The moment before her knife sinks into the skull of the monster, Mahariel thinks of Tamlen. She thinks of Ashalle and Junar and Merrill. She thinks of Paivel and Fenarel and Marethari. Ilen. Maren. Chandon. Pol. She thinks of her clan, her family, her home. These memories do not make her sad, as they’ve done so far along her journey. And she no longer feels guilty when new faces make their way across her mind: Mithra and Deygan and Elora and Athras. Sandal and Bodahn. Conner and Bella and Teagan. Morrigan. Alistair. Leliana. Sten. Wynne. Oghren. Zevran. She doesn’t feel anything but relief, gratitude, joy. With this knife, she has saved them all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> * Da'len - children / child  
> * Durgen'len - lit. Children of the Stone / dwarves  
> * Elgar'nan - Dalish god of wrath and the sun  
> * Ir abelas, hahren. - I'm sorry, elder. / I am filled with sorrow for you, elder. / expression of sympathy  
> * Harellan! - Liar! / (you are a) liar


End file.
